Position
by ace-of-trumps
Summary: Fuji Syuusuke starts a game with Kirihara Akaya that he can't expect to win all the time.


**POSITION**   
feat. :: Fuji & Kirihara   
summary :: starts off quite nicely, then becomes PWP! wheee. a messy, mild FujiKiri (who shall take over the world) for Kali to read while I figure out how to do chapter 3 of 'wildcard'.   
note :: forgot to change the rating to the correct setting when I first uploaded this. apologies to anyone offended. 

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The first time Fuji walked in on Kirihara in the shower, it was in the Rikkai locker room, and he didn't say anything. Leant back against the wall, tiles cold through the cotton of his school shirt, eyes open; watched, the way you'd stare at something, someone beautiful, if they were right there in front of you and they didn't know you were there. It was cold, might snow tomorrow, and Kirihara's teeth chattered even with the hot water on full blast steaming off his skin. When he turned off the shower he hissed, teeth snapping, chill biting his cheeks bright red. 

He reached for a towel, and Fuji put it into his hand. Smiled, to see the start he gave. 

"Don't you like it when something's exactly where you want it?" 

Fuji liked to say things like that and his eyes would never waver, even though Kirihara's colourful language failed him and he looked away, scowling at the wall. All across his face there was the tangled, thorn-like darkness of his hair, shiny and water-slick; Fuji reached out, smoothed it back, smiled proudly as though he'd found a jewel underneath all that mess. Bright and angry, Kirihara's eyes glittered harshly at him. 

Walking down the road with Kirihara's breath puffing white in the air beside him, a dead world gathering brokenly around them, trees without leaves or sound. Where had all the birds gone? Hiding, Kirihara said, sullenly, they hide when it gets this cold. His shoulders hunched, collar of coat all bunched up around his ears. Fuji put his scarf around Kirihara's neck, leant far closer than was necessary. _You owe me_, he whispered. A flick of his tongue across cold pink earlobe, and then he was gone. 

Early in the morning, an explosion of shattering glass, shards thin and small and spiteful spiking the floor of his room with dangerous sparkle and biting into his cheek. He took the phone from Yumiko and told her he'd call the police, waited for her to go back to bed before setting the phone back in its cradle. Before he left for school he plucked his scarf out from the gate, where it had been left to hang like the carcass of some bloody prize. 

He imagined it still smelt of Kirihara. 

So he attacked where he could not be touched: extracting data from Inui - for what was a data master for? - and introducing himself as Akaya's friend from the tennis club (he didn't say which, it wasn't a lie), he made pleasant small talk with Kirihara's mother and charmed Kirihara's little sister silly until she had to go for her piano class. He heard the front door shut, once, then crash open and bang shut again, and he recrossed his legs, smiled full blast when Kirihara bounded into the room. 

Time seemed to stop, but really, it was only a minute before Kirihara's mother called out to him that his friend had come to see him. 

In Kirihara's bedroom, Fuji watched Kirihara dump his bag on the floor, shrug his tracksuit off. Glare, long and hating and hard, at the scarf, twined in Fuji's coat and draped over his chair. You, Kirihara said, what the hell are you here for? But I won't be long, Fuji had replied. Just enough time for you to take a shower and walk me back to the station.. A shower? Kirihara snorted. Aren't I clean enough to send you off _now_? Fuji smiled, one hand below his chin, fingers stroking at his bottom lip in a slow, hypnotic fashion. 

"You're clean _now_," Fuji said. "You won't be when we're done." 

He caught Kirihara's arm in the moment of shock and snarl that his words had provoked, twisting it hard so that Kirihara cried out and stumbled, fell in a tangle of angry limbs and muscle to the floor. His knee on Kirihara's back, his tongue in one ear; teeth sank into his hand, but he kept his other hand where it was, deep beneath both of them. Kept it doing what it was doing and distracted himself by running his mouth over the lines of Kirihara's neck and shoulders, stealing the taste of angry boy and dried sweat and leaving behind the smell and salt of his own mouth. In a while he felt Kirihara's jaws ease, let go, slacken and shudder. 

Kirihara, Fuji found, made the most delicious, rich, velvety noises in his throat - a sound which rose in intensity as Fuji's blue eyes deepened, becoming almost black - if you knew where to touch him and how to kiss him. 

And if you held him down - and you would, because it felt like a challenge, how strong that sleek body really was and how much it made you want to crush him down and make him give up - this kittenish, desperate mewling would bubble into a frustrated snarl, and he would _claw_ at you, even with his back to you, he would wriggle his head around and leave toothmarks in your shoulder, flecks of blood splattering both of you, and the more you struggled to hold him down the more he'd twist and turn until you gave up and let him lie on his back, biting away. And when his body surrendered, you would be glad that he'd done that, because it meant he was facing you, and you could look down into his face, see him looking back at you, and, god, his eyes, the colour and flame of his eyes, you'd feel a wave of sudden fear and doubt and triumph to know that you'd done that to him. 

Then he twisted underneath Fuji, sunk fuzzy head into Fuji's narrow shoulder, mumbled something that sounded like even more, subdued, kitten-language. Fuji didn't understand, smiled anyway. They both knew he'd won. For now. 

He let Kirihara push him off, a while later, and he laughed out loud when Kirihara began hurling abuse at him for the damage done to his shorts. 

The second time Fuji walked in on Kirihara in the shower was five minutes after that, and he didn't say anything, either. Watched, leaning against the tiles, because how could he not? His throat and shoulders stung in a hundred places; he knew he'd have to wear turtlenecks the rest of the week. Kirihara paused, angled his head, put his fingers to his mouth and clamped his teeth on the knuckles, tongue running around the edges. It was a challenge and an invitation which Fuji answered by stepping forward, impulsively, into the shower. Kirihara giggled insanely when Fuji hissed, water touching the bite marks in his skin. Distracted, it was easy to catch him and push him against the wall, keep him there, feel his heart beating all excited through the sopping wet cotton of his shirt. A dark flash of blue between lowered eyelids; he knew he was going to lose this time. It was a terrible feeling, like being destroyed, and yet there was still something left, something new that losing entailed. He could see the promise of it, spreading a wide and wicked grin inches from his face. 

"Exactly where I want it," Kirihara said. 


End file.
